


Without Me

by app_jelly, Tigole Bitties (CrazyM)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bagels, Clones, Crack, Croissants, Cunilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Humor, Lots of sex tbh, Rap, Rappin, Squirting, butt controversy, butt not really lol, croissants vs bagels discourse, dayum, smut humor, tracer be spittin fire, tracer victory pose discourse, wetties, without me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/app_jelly/pseuds/app_jelly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyM/pseuds/Tigole%20Bitties
Summary: Remember the butt pose controversy? Yes, that one.Tracer has a different way to express her feelings. Rap. Her girlfriend thinks it's hot.What happens next is a lot of naughty stuff.Set to the tune of Without Me by Eminem.





	Without Me

**Author's Note:**

> Tigole: Well this was a ride. While I cannot divulge what lies ahead right now, but I really hope this little, um, exercise in humor has you tickled as well.
> 
> Jelly has been a very nice creator to work with and now I know quite a lot of shit about things. What things? Don't ask. I might not be able to answer.
> 
> Full lyrics available on demand.
> 
> Jelly: :3c They sure did learn some things (about me or crack I won't say). Enjoy the read!

AHEM.

Overwatch, the peacekeeping organization backed by the UN that everybody happily bust a nut over (actually, both of them, but they just won’t admit it). Their latest mission to, uh, Germany was a major success. Tracer, the poster child of this peacekeeping organization, was part of the six-man strike team that helped stop a bunch of Talon bitches from pouring a bunch of cement in all the sewers.

“All right everyone,” the official Overwatch cameraman said. He set up his camera on a tripod for stability and motioned for the team to get in front of it. “Strike your best victory pose.”

Tracer spread her legs shoulder width apart, facing away from the camera. And then, slowly, she turned her head so that she looked behind herself over one shoulder. It was her signature over the shoulder look and it’s how she landed herself a girlfriend all those years ago.

“Say Talon sucks!”

And she did. Tracer said “Talon sucks!” loudly and proudly and mixed with salsa.

After the victory pose photo op, the team disbanded, heading for the dropship that would take them back to base. Tracer also headed for the ship because she was hella tired from a job well done. Who wouldn’t be? It’s not every day you stop some bitches from pouring cement into the sewers.

“Wait,” the cameraman said, catching Tracer’s arm before she could walk away. “There’s something you gotta know.”

“Aw, shucks. If this is you about to spill your undying love to me then I’m afraid Ems beat you to it.” Tracer pointed to her girlfriend standing off to the side because of course, she brought her girlfriend on the mission. Emily gave a little wave. “Besides, mate, I’m really gay. Just the biggest, baddest, in-your-face lesbian you’ll ever know.”

The cameraman’s cheeks burned hot because that’s not what he was going to say and he was a little embarrassed. For Tracer. He was embarrassed for Tracer in case it wasn’t clear.

“You’ve got it all wrong. I just wanted to give you an update from Papa Jeff.” Cameraman guy said. He pulled out an elder scroll and read from the top. “Hear ye, hear ye. What’s up everyone it’s Jeff from the Overwatch team and I’ve got some great news for you. We’ve got a major cosmetic update coming up in our next patch. It’s actually not major at all and the only change we’re implementing is getting rid of Tracer’s over the shoulder pose and replacing it with something more in character for her that shows off less ass.”

Cameraman-san transformed into a gargoyle, grabbed his camera with his gargoyle feetsies, and fucked off to god knows where. Probably his house.

 

Definitely his house. Or maybe outside Papa Jeff’s corner office?

 

Emily rushed to Tracer’s side because she had fallen from the shock of the news. “Babe, are you all right? What happened?”

 

“He’s getting rid of it!”

 

“Who’s getting rid of what?”

 

Tracer wiped the snot from her eyes and the tears from her nose. “Papa Jeff, he’s getting rid of my over the shoulder victory pose.”

 

Emily felt a pang of panic reverberate through her love organ, her heart. No. Not Tracer’s over the shoulder victory pose! That’s the one that started their relationship because she bumped into Tracer at a bar one day and fell to the floor. Tracer looked down and behind her in that signature pose and then helped Emily off the floor. They fucked in the bathroom directly thereafter and had been together ever since.

 

“He can’t just do that! That pose is the reason we got together in the first place.”

 

“He can and he did. We’re on borrowed time babe. The patch comes in tomorrow. I’ll have a new pose, a pose that didn’t make you cream your panties five times in a row in a surprisingly clean and well-lit bar bathroom.”

 

Emily helped her girlfriend off the ground and threw her over her shoulder. “There, there. If there’s nothing we can do about it, let’s get you home. Maybe you can vague about it on social media to make yourself feel better.”

 

Tracily, or Emilena as some would say, arrived at their apartment later, their heads hanging low from jet lag because for whatever fucking reason they took a detour to the Caribbean instead of flying straight back home. And also they were sad about the victory pose thing. Angela was fairly neutral as she maintained Widowmaker had a better booty. Emily wished pulse bombs were small enough to be shoved up gross-to-mention tracts. Not out of animosity or anything but because she had an exploding kink and it would really lube her right up to think about pulse bombs shoved up where the sun don’t shine. She already felt a trickle down her leg just thinking about thinking about it (We really wanted to use thincc here, but what the hell). Plus, Angela ain’t that bad in the ass department either.

 

Tracer assumed the fetal position on their sofa. She cried really hard for a bit before Emily came with a blanket and her laptop.

“Here, babe. Snuggle into this blanket while you vague about the cruelties of Papa Jeff on my laptop because you don’t own one because you’re terrible with technology.”

 

“Do you want me to go all blink-blink on your ass to show I’m not?”

 

The trickle down her legs turned into a stream. Emily closed her legs tighter because she didn’t want to stain the couch from how horny she felt in that moment. It would be a bitch to clean up. “Just do the vaguing, love. You’ll feel better about the changes.”

 

Since Tracer actually was super good with technology, she logged onto the world wide web and googled Facebook and made a new account. It actually shouldn’t have been possible since the platform shut down in 2019 but sometimes the universe really gives you what you want. She clicked the button that made new posts and poured her heart and soul into her vague.

 

-And then insert stuff here maybe a rap? ( are we gonna put a rap here or just keep it as is lol?) And then she gets the rap book because magic. Well actually because why not? You don’t get every day to summon the power of Slim.-

 

Emily looks at Tracer in unchecked horror when the infamous “Rap Book” lands on the table with a clap.

 

“Are you _that_ angry? Summoning the almighty power of Slim?” Emily croaks.

 

“Fuck yes, girl! Those SJW (salad Jumanji witches) bitches gon’ get it this time.” Tracer replied, accent suddenly changing from fuck-me-please British to 50 Cent in no time.

 

_Oh no, she’s really angry if her accent’s changed._

 

And then Emily creamed her panties for entirely different reasons. Quite violently. In a way that _will_ leave a mark on the couch. Emily knew there was no point in keeping her legs closed when there was a goddamn Niagara falls between them.

 

Tracer picked a song and began modifying the lyrics to fit her predicament. Soon, the book's closed triumphantly and a sheet of paper emerged, written with lines full of fire, and the unholy power of Slim running through them.

 

“Get them cameras, shit just got real,” Tracer told Emily, accent still as 50 Cent as it comes.

 

Emily offered her prayers to the hip-hop gods above and asked them to bless her girlfriend who had Emily leaking all over her legs (she will take up the matter with her after the rap is over, in a very gay manner, that will almost certainly involve multiple two-way orgasms and _maybe_ even a large purple dick (ok most definitely a large purple dicccck)). She got the camera and set it on a tripod and positioned herself behind it. She flashed a thumbs up.

 

The music began. Tracer spit lines and fire in equal measures, making Emily’s feet quake in awe (and gayness). After the verses were over, Emily stopped the recording and scrambled to upload it as fast as human-fucking-ly possible. Emily hit upload and then hit the floor, disposing of the ruined tights in a way that would make Houdini proud. Their fucking was as fire as the lines Tracer spat, and soon both of them were panting, the large purple dick bathing in juices too varied to name.

 

Tracer pulled herself up from the floor, tired but satisfied from rapping and senseless mutual fapping. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” She logged onto the internet, the place where Emily uploaded the video, and clicked play to admire her rapping skills and Em’s camera prowess. But before she could do that, she noticed that the notifications bar was flooded. The count increased each second at a scary rate.

 

It kinda turned her on (a lot) a little.

 

“Ems, my video’s really taking off. What’d you do with it.”

 

Emily also got up from the floor to investigate what was going on. All she did was record her love rapping her ass off about her ass and then upload the raw footage. She didn’t even edit it. “Why don’t we watch it with fresh eyes? See what’s up.”

 

And then they heard the roar of the unmistakable RapMobile. Lena put on a shirt and dashed to their balcony to see that Slim had graced them with his presence. Dr Dre exited the RapMobile too and they were in the flat at the exact moement and moment the women slipped on the last of their clothes.

 

“Lord Slim!” both of them chorused and fell to his feet. Lord Slim nodded.

 

“I have come to see this T.Racer who hath produced a quality rap video about her ass and the injustices it had to put up with.”

 

“And also summoning his powers.” Dr Dre added behind them, standing by the door like a bouncer sent from the heavens.

 

“This is what the true meaning of rap is. Venting your emotions, and not mumbling verses about shiny cars and rental bitches.”

 

Emily and Tracer looked at him reverently.

 

“And thus, I grant thee the platform to vent about your problems in a music video. My loyal minions at Slim Shady records shall take care of your needs.”

 

“Does that mean we can ride the RapMobile?” Emily asked the god and Tracer got turned on at the multiple implications of the word ‘ride’ lol.

 

Slim nodded his head once and only once. He scrambled to get to the car in an impromptu race with Tracily/Emilena. Tracer won of course because blinks, duh. But that’s not what was put into the official record books. Because if the insurance company ever found out he lost a race, well, he’d have to rap about it and then insurance would cease to be a thing. On second thought, maybe he should have officially lost.

 

Dr Dre looked at Slim as they watched the car speed away towards the horizon.

 

“Uber?” Slim offered.

 

“You little shit.” Dr Dre cursed and whipped out his phone.

 

Tracer and Emily pulled up to Slim Shady Records in the RapMobile that they borrowed because Tracer won the race and by default, from being her girlfriend, so did Emily. “It was real nice of Slim to let us drive the RapMobile to the studio. Not like I hopped in the driver’s seat and frantically waved you over just in case I wasn’t allowed to take it for a spin.”

 

Emily reassuringly wore a reassuring smile to reassure her girlfriend about any doubts she had. “Of course he let us drive the RapMobile while he took an Uber. You summoned the power of Slim, so, naturally, you get to drive the car.”

 

Slim and Dr Dre pulled up behind them in the Uber that they had to rent but they were totally cool about it because fair is fair in a foot race. Dr Dre seemed a little fazed at the _stupidity_ of it all, but it looked like he had accepted it.

 

“So, how do we do this?” Tracer asked, barely withholding herself from bouncing in place.

 

Slim bent down a little and draped one arm over Tracer’s shoulder (politely and with permission because Slim respected personal boundaries especially with strangers). He stretched out his arm as far as it would go and then said, “Look around you, homie. Everything the studio touches is yours to use. Also, the rap book shall be your guide.”

 

Tracer whipped out the rap book from the inside of her left shoe, because the right one houses her pulse bombs, and let it fall open naturally. Actually, she dropped it on the floor and then picked it up on the page that it opened to. She gave it a good perusal for like a solid ten seconds before throwing it over her shoulder.

 

“I got this.” Tracer rolled up her sleeves and stalked over to the green screen.

 

Slim and Dr Dre looked at each other and shrugged. “Let the girl do what she wants to do,” they said.

 

In the blink of an eye, or maybe two, Tracer changed into her signature look: Lightning Tracer. Hair? Mohawk. Clothes? Still tight and very booty-ful but like with lightning bolts. Gay? Over 9000.

 

Tracer started the video off on the moon, just chillin’ and floating with two ladies that were specifically not hotter than Emily. They just wore space helmets because spacesuits were for losers and didn’t fit in with the lesbian agenda of being gay.

 _Two trailer park girls go round the outside,_  
_Round the outside, round the outside_  
_Two trailer park girls go round the outside,_  
_Round the outside, round the outside_  
  
Emily stood off to the side, really fucking in love with her girlfriend, but, also, still really fucking confused with the lyrics. What did trailer park girls have to do with anything? They were certainly outside, if space counts as being outside, which it totally does, because the full name of space is outer space, which indicates being outside. She shook her head with a smile. It didn’t really matter if she understood it or not. Art was in the making.

 

Plus, Lena wasn’t getting any squirties if Emily found out there were more people in the fray. Definitely not.

  
_Guess who's back, back again_  
_Tracer's back, tell a friend_  
_Guess who's back, guess who's back?_  
_Guess who's back, guess who's back?_  
_Guess who's back, guess who's back?_  
_Guess who's back?_

 _  
_ While Slim and Dre helped Tracer with the lyrics, word passed around the world, from one ear to the other, people were excited and terrified in equal measure. The last person to get the news, however, was Papa Jeff, who freaked out and flipped his table, which broke his favorite THICC Widowmaker figurine.

 

Some say he’s still crying about it.

 

 _Jeff’s created a monster, 'cause nobody wants to see Tracer no more_  
_They want booty, I'm chopped liver._  
_Well if you want booty, then this is what I'll give ya_ _  
_     _A little bit of **Beep** mixed with some brown leather_

 _Some crocs that will jump start their hearts quicker_  
_Then a shot when I get shocked at the hospital_  
_By the monkey when I'm not cooperating_  
_When I'm rocking the table while he's off inventing "Hey"_  
_You waited this long to stop debating_  
_'Cause I'm back, used recall, charged and blinking_  
_I know that you got a job Ms. Mercy_  
_But your girlfriend’s heart problem's complicating!_  
_So the F-C-C won't let me be or let me be me so let me see_  
_They tried to shut me down on reddit, jeez_  
_But it feels so empty without me_  
_So come on and dip, bum on your lips_  
_Fuck that, squirt on your lips and some on your tits_  
_And get ready 'cause this shit is about to get heavy_ _  
_     _I just settled all my lawsuits, "Fuck you, Jeffie!"_

 

That was a long stretch of lyrics that Emily had absolutely zero opinion on. Not like it was annoying or anything to constantly think about what was being said instead of just listening to the whispers of the wind caressing her ears with sound. Like sweet sweet molasses. Better than Morgan Freeman. Definitely better than Morgan Freeman, but don’t let him know that. Shhhhh. It would not be nice to be Morgan Freeman in that situation because it’s rather upsetting to know that he is no longer the best at his craft, caressing ears with sound, sweet, sweet, sound.

 

So, she just kinda stood to the side and bobbed her head and gave thumbs up whenever appropriate. Which happened to be a lot, because Tracer, her girlfriend, Lena, needed almost constant reassurance that she was doing well. Anyone would if they got a chance to make a video with Slim Shady records. Also, she needed Emily to rate her current state of Lesbianing. Tracer was sitting kinda ok at a solid seven and a quarter. Out of five, that is. Because Tracer’s Lesbianing was (too mighty to be contained by either the metric or imperial system, but a measure has been provided for representation.) over nine thousand consistently consistent like a wall clock that has fresh batteries.

 _  
_ The best part about the video that Emily could remember was all dat damn (d)twerking. How in the world could one ass do that much? Before she didn’t think that Lena had that much junk in the trunk, that there would be no wiggle, just twitchy muscle. But, oh, was she wrong(k). So wrong(k) that she would have to go down on her on the set right then and there to make up for her mistake. But like, Slim and Dre, Dr Dre that is, would have to leave because no boys allowed. Actually, that was a really good idea. An idea so good, that she had no choice but to act on it as quickly as possible. Which was now. Right now.

 

“I’m gonna have to ask you both to leave the set,” Emily said to Slim and Dr Dre. The hoarseness in her voice made Tracer horny because she knew exactly what was about to follow, very well.

 

“Why?” Slim and Dr Dre asked at the same time in harmony in the inverted key of E and D, with augmentations of course.

 

“Because I am going to fuck my girlfriend good and right until I stop feeling guilty that I thought her ass didn’t jiggle.”

 

Tracer went red and clutched her butt. She clutched it because she knew what was about to transpire in or around its immediate vicinity, which would definitely involve an orifice or two. And she was getting the wetties just thinking about it so she clutched her butt to help anchor her in the reality that her girlfriend was about to rock her (ass) world. The chronal accelerator was a joke. It’s grabbing her butt that kept her in the present. She couldn’t always keep her hands on it, so the chronal accelerator replicated their presence on her ass at all times.

 

The two gods evacuated the scene with a speed that made Tracer whistle in admiration. And did she know how to whistle. She won the Overwatch whistling contest three years in a row since its inception or maybe she meant conception. And it only lasted three years. Before the bitches Jack and Gabriel blew the base to shit.

 

“Babe, did you like the video that much?” Tracer asked, her cheeks growing more and more red until they kind of hit a plateau and then went back to being their normal color because Emily was slow walking towards her. She was reallly taking her sweet ass time. Special emphasis on the word ass, because asses were great. Emily’s ass, in particular, was great. Tracer would know. But that’s a discussion for a different fic (if the collaborators do decide that this fic wasn’t a complete waste of time), and not the name she uses in the bedroom unless she’s roleplaying, which was almost every night so she’ll stick with being called Tracer.

 

Finally, Emily arrived in front of her girlfriend, Tracer. She took a lock of her previously brown, now blond (that is how super lesbian mode works), hair and sniffed it for a bit before she smoothed it back with its fellow locks.

 

“Yeah,” Emily finally answered. She kinda forgot that she was asked a question with the whole slow walking thing until she finally parked herself in front of her girlfriend, which was Tracer. And isn’t that how memory works for a lot of people? “I liked it a whole bunch. You know, the word used to describe a group of bananas. But there aren’t any bananas here. There’s just you and me.”

 

Tracer found everything Emily just said incredibly hot. Even the completely unintended wordplay. So she did what any other respectable English woman in her position would do, she made tea and then had a few discreet wetties in her panties.

 

But they weren’t discreet enough. Emily smelled the potion she brew in her panties the second that it happened. And she liked it. She really did. Because it was arousing to her, the smell and thought and, while we’re at it, thot of her girlfriend’s cummies. It turned her on a lot and made her simmer her own pot roast, which is a euphemism for the word snatchpurse, which is another euphemism for, well, you already know. Which was great because they would need it for the purposes of sex. Which is an activity they were about to participate in because they were both horny and in love with each other and it all had to do with Tracer’s ass controversy. It always had something to do with asses

 

“Oh, babe, let’s have the sex activity right here and right now,” Tracer purred because in her free time she lived as a pussy-cat.

 

“Yeah, babe, that was kinda the plan,” Emily replied, her eyes sparkling in the presumably kinda dark studio, so they didn’t shine at all actually. She grasped at Tracer’s hands which were grasping her asscheeks and moved them so that they were grasping her, Emily’s, titties below her shirt but over her bra, graspingly. Her kink was over the clothes stuff, but it wasn’t about her kink. It was about Tracer’s, which was general under the clothes stuff.

 

Tracer had a second kink, though. One more powerful than general under the clothes stuff. It was extracurricular under the clothes stuff. So, like, touching no-no’s was maybe in the future. In the very near future.

 

Emily suplexed her girlfriend into the green screen floor. Tracer got a nosebleed but that was okay because it’s her third kink. The suplex also had magic lesbian powers because it made Tracer’s clothes disappear. And that was really hot. Especially that Bermuda triangle of blonde bush that she kept good and trim every single day. If she was being honest, she didn’t much fancy the bald look anyway. Neither did her girlfriend, Emily. They both favored the jungle commando look, especially when they went commando. Emily liked to keep her bush styled in a smiley face. It was cute but in a sexy way.

 

“Oh, golly jeepers!” Tracer moaned both aloud and in her mind because that’s just how it always is if you stop to think about it. (Crazy M is having a minor heart attack on learning about this fact). “Babe, how did you know about my fourth and definitely not final suplex kink?”

 

A smirk wormed its way onto Emily’s features because it felt fancier to word it that way than to say that she smirked, Wordplay FTW. “Oh, haven’t you heard?” she said trying to come up with an excuse about how she knew because Tracer had explicitly skipped her fourth kink every time she went down the list. “You talk in your sleep, love. You bolted to life one night and just kinda had an abrupt confessional. Apparently, cold water would have been another kink had you been able to dip your pinky toes in it without getting the sudden, and violent, urge to pee. Which, you found quite unfortunate because piss is your thirtieth kink.”

 

Holy shit, that did sound like something she’d reveal in her sleep. Tracer’s jaw dropped open in awe and admiration, both kinda sorta the same thing. It gave Emily the horny willies and for once she wished she could get an ice shard from Mei. Ice dildos would surely drive Tracer up any imaginable wall. Hecc, even the great wall of China. With enough lube, it’d be sure to make her toes curl. But that’s neither here nor there since Emilena/Tracily didn’t have access to an ice shard. Well, one large enough for fucking.

 

“Sounds about right,” Tracer finally said. She flipped herself so that she was balanced on two knees and a shoulder. “My lady oven is hot and ready for doughy croissants to enter and then expand and then become perfect golden goodness.”

 

To be fair and honest, Emily wasn’t really into the analogy that Tracer used. She preferred bagels. “Get ready for this bagel then.”

 

“Please say croissant.”

 

Emily playfully rolled her eyes. “Fine. Get ready for this _croissant_ then.”

 

“OoooOOOh, yeah, babe am I ever ready for that croissant.”

 

Emily wasted no time attaching her snorkeling mask, parting the forest, and diving into the pussy sea. She went to town with her tongue, purchasing the groceries she would need for tonight’s dinner. But when she returned, she spelled every single one of Tracer’s kinks, sucking and smacking when appropriate.

 

Tracer was trapped in pure ecstasy. If there was a jar nearby, she was sure she could pop the lid right off with how tight her grip was. “Keep going just like that and I’ll explode. Also, I know I just said to keep going, but, could you pass me a jar?”

 

Emily reached for the pickle jar she always kept in her back pocket. “Here, babe. Have at it.”

 

And she did. Tracer suctioned her palm to the lid and ripped it right off. She fucking loved pickles. “I think I’ll have a snack. Care for a pickle, Ems?”

 

Pickles were lit, but, she was too busy tending to the croissants. Emily shook her head no and then plunged three fingers and also her tongue into Tracer’s molten honey pot.

 

“Holy fuck gods. I almost dropped my pickle. And I’m pretty sure I nutted a bit.”

 

It was more than a bit because Emily had some of it on her tit as well. God bless female ejaculation.

 

Emily came up for air, removing her snorkeling mask with a giant smirk. “Did you enjoy your croissant, babe?”

 

Tracer finished off her pickle and sucked off her fingers. “You bet your knickers I did. And somehow the pickle made it even better.”

 

And then her knickers vanished. As if they hadn’t been ruined by all the wetties she had already. Tracer used her special move, the blink, and disappeared from under Emily. Emily found out where Tracer went when her tongue collided with her molten (MOLTENCOREEEE) honey nut cheerios pot.

 

“HOLY SHIT!” Emily screamed hard and rather loud but that’s irrelevant. T.Racer made sure she kept tending to the croissant in Emily’s lady oven, lest it fall victim to gravity and deflate. Emily preferred not to eat the croissant, because she somehow always bust like five nuts whenever she swallowed and then Tracer had to pull out of her burning forge and perform the Heimlich maneuver. The Heimlich maneuver is not sexy at all (which is a shame because that was its original purpose and then people discovered it could be used to dislodge pizza rolls and various other foods from a choking person’s throat).

 

It was a good thing that Emily had no interest in eating croissants because she didn’t like them. Bagels were more her style, and she couldn’t wait for Tracer to bake her bagels just right. And eat them.

 

“Tracer, babe. I need you to bake my bagels before I get impatient and do it myself.”

 

“Wait, hold on.” Tracer pulled out the rap book and turned to the page that would magically transport them back to their flat. That page didn’t exist, so they ended up calling a cab. A cab for Slim and Dr Dre because Emilena/Tracily hopped in the RapMobile naked as the day they were born, snogging all the way home.

 

They stumbled all the way back up to their unit, leaving bananas behind every step of the way. Actually, they were pickles because they didn’t have any bananas. It was really lit, but not for the person who had to clean the hallways, stairs, and elevator(s). Actually, the janitor quit after the first flight of stairs.

 

It was exactly twelve minutes later that they finally reached their flat, which was open because they never closed the door. Honestly, it was more of a convenience to them that they didn’t have to fish for their keys because they didn’t have the right lure on them.

“Take me hard and fast babe. I kinda wanna get this over with because Le(s)bians in the Dark comes on in three minutes,” Emily panted in Tracer’s ear, her girlfriend.

Le(s)bians in the Dark? That was her favouuuurrrite show. She would have to hurry up then. “I can do fast.”

 

And fast she did. She got Emily in the sexy Heimlich maneuver and just went to town on dat pussy with the strap-on she found under the couch. Emily really liked it she did. Except that she really wished she was upside down. So she told her girlfriend, Tracer, exactly that.

 

“Babe, you think you could flip me onto me noggin?”

 

Before she could even sneeze, something she didn’t actually have to do, Emily found herself on her head. She looked behind her for Tracer and blinked a lot because she thought she had something in her eye. She didn’t, Tracer had cloned herself.

 

“Babe, how’d you do that?”

 

“Oh, there was a section on it in the rap book. Do you like it?”

 

Original Tracer didn’t get an answer because Emily was busy tonguing Clone Tracer’s mouth.

 

Clone Tracer paid close attention to Emily’s happy button whilst Original Tracer pounded her lights out from above. Soon enough the telltale signs of Emily’s upcoming rapture from down south but up north was upon them. She held onto Clone Tracer for life as she spread her legs wide open and soaked Original Tracer with an absolute tidal wave of pure molten Emily. That is exactly what a tsunami looks like to a lesbian.

 

Emily wasted no time once she was done with the sex racing towards the tv and turning it on to Le(s)bians in the Dark, Season 10 Episode 52. “Thank goodness we made it in time. Mercy’s supposed to find out if Pharah has feelings for her or her alter ego, Angela.” She slumped onto the couch and held her arms open for Tracer to snuggle into. Original Tracer happily obliged.

 

“What about me?” Clone Tracer asked, her bottom lip jutting out and her wide eyes watering with unshed tears that she planned on shedding if she didn’t like Emily’s answer.

 

Emily opened her arms again to make room for another Tracer to cuddle. “Come here, dummy.”

 

They watched the thrilling three hour long episode snuggled up to each other in their post-sex bliss, except for Clone Tracer, because she didn’t get her rocks off, as opposed to boulders, but that was okay.

 

“Lena, honey-bun,” Emily started once the episode was over. “Do you feel better about Papa Jeff remobing and removing your victory pose because the first word was spelled wrong?”

 

“Making that video really let me vent about my feelings. I feel better now. I’m kinda meh about it now. My new pose is cuter anyway.”

 

“And I never really gave a shit,” Clone Tracer said.

 

Everyone gave a good, hearty laugh and then got up to play ghost poker in the living room.

 

The End.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That was fun, right? 
> 
> Let us know in the comments!


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